By Shaindle Schmuckler | firstname.lastname@example.org
Funny how things happen.
My daughter No. 3 had a microwave failure recently. I had one the following week. Yes, we are that close. She, however, has three growing boys, four if you count her husband. They needed a
microwave and needed it now.
They bought a small counter edition to made do until they found a microwave that fit the space above their range. That space, allotted for a microwave, is smaller than average. Her search is on.
We call daughter No. 3 “the seeker.” I depend on her to get the scoop on anything and everything, including where the best deal for microwaves can be found. Armed with this information, my hubby No. 1 and I went shopping.
At the first and only stop we made (no need to mention the Home Depot), we found a perfect fit for a great price, including shipping, delivery and removal of the old microwave. A beautiful young woman who should have been in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition was our saleswoman. She knew her stuff and was very helpful.
Until she quoted the delivery date.
May 29? Seriously? That would be a full 3½ weeks away. What would I do without this convenience? How would I live?
It’s a return to the Dark Ages. What’s next, eating by candlelight? Oh, wait, actually that sounds lovely. You might as well tell me to wash my clothes in the river and dry them on a rock.
I have a freezer full of the five-minute, microwavable veggies. I have dinners I cooked, froze and planned to defrost for our future dining pleasure.
What is that you say? Defrost food in the kitchen sink? That is so passé. I may be called many things, but passé is not one of them.
I can recall, once upon a time when I was a girl, the process of defrosting meat in the sink. It was actually the only food requiring defrosting. Well, other than the frozen orange juice.
Bread, rolls, cakes and cookies were always fresh. Veggies were either fresh or canned. Ah, the memory of those canned peas and carrots blended into a meatloaf. The mashed potatoes with canned peas for color.
Mommy (z”l) was not from the cooks. Mostly all varieties of meat and chicken were cooked in the same pot, at the same time, to save time and energy by washing no more than one or two pots per meal. Many times, the potatoes, carrots and onions were also cooked in the same black polka-dot pot, along with the meat or chicken.
Yes, everything tasted the same. I was not aware that other mommies did not use this time-saving, water-saving, electricity-saving, fingernail-polish-saving method. So eco-friendly. So ahead of her time.
My first microwave oven was a rather large contraption. The salesperson suggested that my children place a hot dog on a microwavable plate, place it in the microwave for one minute and watch the hot dog move around as if by magic. That adventure lasted twice: once for my girls’ entertainment delight and a second time when they brought their friends in to witness this awe-inspiring phenomenon.
Here I am, years later, and the microwave ovens are sleeker, come in many colors and sizes, and include many magical buttons. Just how does it know how long to cook popcorn? How in heaven’s name can it tell I am cooking a kid’s meal and microwave said meal to the exact time required.
This morning I was forced to use a small pot, placed on my gas burner, to warm up my coffee. Given that the burners do not automatically shut off, I forgot about the coffee until I heard the distinct sound of bubbles in boiling water. The roof of my mouth is still sensitive to the simple act of breathing.
I shall persevere. I shall survive this indignity. I shall overcome this adversity. I can do this! May 29 will be here soon enough.
Unless there is a sudden shortage of white microwave ovens. Should such a tragedy befall me, well, all I can say is: I am woman; I am strong; I will survive.